Ninth Circle
by earl grey with a touch of blue
Summary: Welcome to the Ninth Circle, where you betray yourself. HG/TR


Er - I don't have a good reason to be posting this. I don't even have the whole story planned out yet, just the barebones of a plot and some interesting characters.

The rating will change accordingly as the story progresses - this will be a (short) story (hopefully), but knowing me, it'll probably explode to ridiculous proportions when I find a sub-plot to play with. Or a sequel, whatever, they come and go. It will be in five chunks, each ranging from **four** thousand to **eight **thousand, and will take a week to two weeks to update. I have a schedule, but like I said, it's just the bare minimum to get started.

This is a super short, but super important prologue - it's essential to the plot and while, yes, we don't have any clue what the hell is going on yet, there will be more to come that'll probably (not really) help you understand.

* * *

Rules – I don't care for them.

I don't – I never did, I never will, and so far, that mantra has never failed me.

How can normality be so_ compelling_, so _exhilarating_ for some? I always fail to see how anything can be so desirable in monotony. To me, there is beauty in the _destruction _and the _debasement_ of placidity. I can't stand stillness – there should be fire and chaos and death – that is what should be done.

I am not alone in this cause – there are others like me, others that long for _beauty _once more, for the smoke of ashes lingering in the air before explosions – craters on the earth's surface. Oh, how I _long_ for that.

Give me liberty, or give me death – oh how it fits, how it fits so well.

Now, hand of God, strike me down – before I rape your earth of its stillness and peace.

**Strike me down -**

"Are you scared?" He whispers. The woman before him is trembling, and the fear is so pungent in the air that he just longs to stand still and just _savor_ it.

But time is a-ticking, and how _achingly_ little time he has have left.

The room he stands in is lush – thick brocade curtains lined with ermine – _what a waste_, he muses to himself, softly whistling under his breath –

Lemons and limes, he hums, how the sun shines!

And the woman whimpers in fear. He turns his attention away from the curtains and walks across the planks of cherry wood floor, his newly waxed penny loafers gleaming a java brown against the wood, to the back of the chair where she sits.

"Oh no," he croons to her, "That won't do at _all_. Now dearie," he pats her cheek. "Will you tell me what I want?"

The gag in her mouth stifles her response. Her eyeliner has run down in swaying rivulets, little tiny tributaries swaggering off down her cheeks, but he is sure that if he turned her world upside down, tip her back over, he is sure that it pool back into the cesspool of it all – her _eyes_.

Such pretty eyes too – a light blue seemingly unhindered by time, still oh-so bright and gleaming and a magnificent place to plant his needles –

Oh _yes_.

He pats her ratty hair, and stares at the bookcases behind her, full of novels – _the Picture of Dorian Grey, Anna Karenina, the Brothers Karamazov_ – expensive editions, beautifully stitched even from the distance and lovingly embroidered edges. "Now sweets," he grips her hair to her muffled shriek. "Do tell me as to why you were _following _me before? Oh, I do so hate _stalkers_."

He rips the dirty rag out of her mouth.

"I didn't – I swear – if I had known, _oh_," she gasps, "If I had known – if only I had _known_ – please, _please_, don't – I didn't know – I was only –"

He gags her again.

He crouches so that he is eye-to-eye and staring into her crazed, terror-filled eyes.

"You were only curious," he says, "is that it?"

The woman nods fervently.

"Only curious, you say," he mumbles, "the cat said that too before I –" he tilts his head, "why, before I chopped its tail off. Cats tattle, you know, oh they so enjoy the act of gossiping, of _mindlessly tattling_, and, well, it gets on my _nerves_."

The woman starts to the shake back and forth, her momentum slightly moving the chair, scratching the smooth wood of the floor.

"And I do so hate cats," his eyes fall to half-mast, getting slightly dreamy. "So whenever I see one now, I just," he flicks out a thin stiletto from his front pocket, tucked snugly in with his pristine, smooth satin and gold silk embroidering, triple folded, "catch it by the tail," he brings up to eye level – the floor is shaking now with her efforts to flee, stifled screams hindered by the gag, "tie the blasted creature up," he points it closer and closer to her bright cornflower eye, "and _kill it._"

He stabs her in the eye.

She screams – oh, she screamed, and it is lovely and soothing, and he hums along to her shrieking, to the sheer beauty of it – and asks her again.

Why was she following him?

Tears rush down her face, blending with rich blood gushing out like a broken fountain pen, mixed in with eyeliner and mascara, and – he gently wipes away the mixture with the pad of his thumb and takes the gag out.

She immediately sucks in more breath to scream –

"If you scream," he says, "I will cut off your tongue and use your blood as ink."

The sound of her teeth clacking together causes him to smile.

"Now, aren't you such a good girl," he croons. Getting up, he moves to take off his jacket, elegantly folding it across the antique, baroque, Louis XIII writing desk, the legs ending in a smooth claw, and unbuttons his unmarked dress shirt underneath to fold them to his elbow – four precise two inch folds on each arm – and straightens up his vest, gold buttons saddling a satin lined cherry red vest, pearl silk enclosing the inside of the clothing.

He moves onto a large, black leather bag and rifles around inside of it, looking for a particular – _ah_, there it is.

"Now then," he says amicably, "have you ever been to the surgeon?"

He takes out a rusty, beaten metal saw.

"Welcome to the Ninth Circle, where you betray yourself."


End file.
